


Things Aint' What They Used To Be

by GilShalos1



Series: Without Bugles [4]
Category: Foyle's War
Genre: Complete, Crimes & Criminals
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-10
Updated: 2014-07-10
Packaged: 2018-02-08 06:21:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,536
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1929969
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GilShalos1/pseuds/GilShalos1
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Set after "Casualties of War". Sam tells herself she is resigned to her new circumstances, but when a friend is the victim of a crime, her path crosses that of the Hastings Constabulary once more.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Things Aint' What They Used To Be

 

 

 

 

 

 

_Got so weary of bein' nothin',_

_Felt so dreary just doin' nothin'_

_Things Ain_ _’t What They Used To Be - Ellington, 1942_

 

_July, 1943_

 

* * *

 

“I say, Cicely, do shake a leg,” Samantha Stewart said. She rapped on the bathroom door again. “You’ve been absolutely _hours_ and I have to get to work.”

 

 _Work_. The thought brought an oppressive heaviness that Sam found quite foreign. After three years of being ready, even _eager_ , to arrive at work and discover what the day, and Mr Foyle, had in store for her, the painstaking, tedious work at Beverley Lodge _as bally important as it is_ , made her want to run screaming in the opposite direction.

 

Not that she would, of course. There was a war on, and sacrifices had to be made. _And having a job one loathes is not nearly as much of a sacrifice as charging into enemy fire or being parachuted into occupied territory._

_Although either of those would be a jolly sight more interesting._

_However **briefly**._

She knocked again. “Cissy! Have you _drowned_?”

 

The door jerked open. _About time_ died on Sam’s lips as she took in Cicely Oswell’s red-rimmed, swollen eyes. “What on earth’s the matter?” she asked instead.

 

“Nothing,” her billet-mate said shortly, trying to push past into the hall.

 

“Rubbish,” Sam said robustly. She took Cicely’s arm to stop her, but let go at the other woman’s cry of pain. “What is it? Did you scald yourself? Let me see.” Ignoring Cicely’s protests, she pushed up the sleeve of the other woman’s dressing gown. “I _did_ do First Aid with the MTC and scalds can be —”

 

But it was not a burn she saw on Cicely’s arm, but rather five purpling bruises, four in a row and one off-set, exactly like …

 

_Four fingers and a thumb._

 

“Cissy!” Sam exclaimed. “Who on earth _did_ this?”

 

Cicely yanked her arm free. “I don’t know!” she wailed, and, bursting into tears, fled to her room.

 

Sam followed in haste. _I_ _’ll be late, but bother it_ , she thought. _If the war can_ _’t go on without me, then it can jolly well wait five minutes._

Cicely had flung herself down on her bed, face buried in the pillow, sobbing convulsively. Sam closed the door behind them and sat down next to her friend. “I say, Cissy, it’ll be alright,” she said, patting a heaving shoulder. “But you have to tell me what’s going on, or I can’t _help_.”

 

Between sobs and gasps, the story came out: the argument with her beau, William, at _The Cat's Pyjamas_ and William flinging off home, leaving Cicely at the bar; Cicely’s piqued decision to finish her drink alone; the young soldier on leave who had struck up a conversation with her, bought her a second drink, and offered to see her home; and then waking in an alley she didn’t recognise, alone and aching from injuries she had no recollection of receiving.

 

“Oh, Cissy,” Sam said, hugging her. “Did you - do you think he -”

 

Cicely nodded against Sam’s shoulders. “My kn-kn-knickers,” she sobbed. “On the gr-gr-ground. And I hurt! It hurts, it hurts!”

 

Sam set her teeth. _If I get my hands on that absolute, utter **cad** , _she thought _, a bin lid will be the **least** of it. _ “We must get you to a doctor,” she said. “And then you must tell the police.”

 

“No! No!” Cicely wailed. “I can’t - I can’t! They’ll know!”

 

“Of course they’ll know,” Sam said reasonably. “That’s the point of _telling_ them. Then they can arrest this rotter and put him in jail where he belongs.”

 

“I can’t bear it, I can’t!” Cicely protested. “They - they - all those _men_! _Knowing_! Looking at me and _thinking_!”

 

“Look, you must be seen by a doctor at the very least,” Sam said. “What about a woman doctor? There’s one in Clive Vale. Dr Blackwell. Would you like me to call her? I can cycle down to the phone box, I won’t be long.”

 

It took some little while of cajoling, persuading, and insisting, but Cicely was finally induced to accept the necessity of medical attention. Sam was reluctant to leave her, but there was nothing for it. With promises to be back in _mere moments, you won_ _’t have time to know I’m gone_ , she dressed hastily and raced downstairs to her bicycle.

 

The exchange connected her to Dr Blackwell’s surgery, but the telephone rang and rang without answer. _Blimey_ , Sam thought, _of course. I forgot how early it is!_

 

Or, in regards to her own employment, how late.

 

She hung up, then put in more pennies and dialed Beverly Lodge, explaining when she got through that she wasn’t able to work today as she had a sick friend. The tone of the response promised trouble tomorrow, but there was no help for it. _Can_ _’t leave Cissy in the lurch_. Next she tried the operator again, asking this time for Dr Blackwell’s home.

 

Fortunately, the doctor had the phone on, and after a few rings a gruff female voice said: “Yes?”

 

“Dr Blackwell, I’m sorry it’s so early, but my friend needs a doctor?”

 

“Address?”

 

Sam gave it, and there was a pause.

 

“Don’t you have someone closer?” Dr Blackwell asked at last.

 

“She needs a - a _woman_ doctor,” Sam said. “Please, Dr Blackwell. I think she’s quite hurt.”

 

Dr Blackwell said a word Sam was _quite_ sure she’d never heard a woman use. “Has she been trying to get rid of a child?”

 

“No,” Sam said. “No, it’s - she was - there was a man.”

 

“Right,” Dr Blackwell said. “Isn’t there always? Give me the address again. I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

 

Feeling reassured, Sam hung up. She considered calling the station, even if Cicely didn’t want her too. _Surely once she talks to Mr Milner she_ _’ll see she can trust him enough to tell him what happened!_

 

 _No_. Better to wait until she could talk Cicely into it.

 

She cycled back to the house as quickly as she could and hurried upstairs, tapping on Cicely’s door. “Cissy? The doctor’s on her way.”

  

Sam tapped again, louder. “Cissy? Are you there? Cissy?”

 

Still getting no answer, she tried the handle, and when it turned, she pushed the door open. The bed was empty, and then she saw that Cicely was standing by the huge, old-fashioned wardrobe that Mrs Henderson had left in what had been a dressing room before she started letting rooms to service-women. _But her face looks so odd_ _…_

_And her feet aren_ _’t touching the floor._

 

From a long way away, Sam heard her own voice crying out for help as she rushed forward to throw her arms around her friend’s waist and lift her up. She tried to reach up and pull loose the belt around Cicely’s neck but she couldn’t support the other woman’s weight with only one arm. _Help, help, somebody, help, somebody, somebody_ _…_

 

It was an age, it was seconds, before running footsteps thundered down the hall. There was a hubbub of raised voices from the doorway. Someone screamed.

 

 _Stop being so plurry useless,_ Sam thought _, and help me!_

“Out of the way,”a young woman ordered crisply. “I said _move_! Mrs Henderson, call the ambulance, Anne, get scissors or a knife or something. _Now!_ ”

 

Another set of arms joined Sam’s around Cicely’s waist. She turned her head to see Milicent Lovell, who she knew only vaguely as a new resident doing something for the WAF, helping her with Cicely’s weight.

 

“I’ve got scissors,” Anne panted from the doorway.

 

“Cut that belt,” Sam said. “There’s a chair by the desk.”

 

A scraping noise told her Anne was dragging the chair over. A moment’s silence, and then Anne quavered: “It won’t cut. It won’t cut!”

 

“Anne,” Millie said very calmly, “stop mucking about and _cut the bally noose!_ ”

 

Her voice cracked like a whip and would have done credit to a sergeant major. Anne gave a gulp, and a second later Sam felt Cicely’s weight grow heavier.

 

“Lay her down,” Millie said tersely. Between them, they managed to stretch Cicely out on the floor. Sam felt her wrist.

 

“She’s alive!” she said.

 

Millie held her hand in front of Cicely’s mouth, frowning, and then sucked in air as if preparing to dive deep and, stooping, put her mouth over Cicely’s and blew out hard.

 

“What are you doing?” Sam asked. “Shouldn’t we put her on her front?”

 

“Works better,” Millie said shortly, and took another deep breath, repeating the process.

 

“ _Do_ please wake up, Cissy,” Sam said, rubbing her friend’s hand. “Please.”

 

More voices in the hall, and then someone else knelt beside Sam. She glanced sideways to see an older woman, spare and bony, iron-grey hair in a mannish cut, dressed incongruously in trousers, a jacket, and what appeared to be a man’s pyjama top and carrying a black bag.

 

“I’m a doctor,” the woman said. “What happened?” She leaned over to look at Cicely’s neck. “Never mind. Keep going, girl.”

 

“Dr Blackwell!” Sam said.

 

“Yep,” Dr Blackwell said. “ _You_ called me?” She snapped open her bag and drew out a small vial.

 

“Yes,” Sam said. “But when I came back, I found her …” Cicely’s face as it had appeared when she opened the door flashed before her.

 

“Ambulance coming?”

 

“Mrs Henderson has gone to call,” Sam said.

 

Dr Blackwell nodded, and leaned forward, saying to Millie: “Hold up.”

 

Millie leaned back and Dr Blackwell uncorked the bottle and held it near Cicely’s nose.

 

There was a moment’s silence as they watched, holding their own breath.

 

Then Cicely twitched, and gasped, and began to breathe.

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

When the call came in - _Attempted suicide, young woman -_ it took Paul Milner a moment to identify the reason the address was familiar.

 

Then it came to him. _Sam_.

 

“Did they give a name?” he demanded of the desk sergeant. The man shook his head. _If it had been Brooke, he would have recognised that street, that number. He would have got a name, or at least a description_.

 

But Brooke’s shift had not yet started, and this man had only worked in the station a few months, not long enough to have even met Samantha Stewart, let alone know where she lived.

 

“I’ll go out there,” Milner said. “Tell Constable Marksbury to meet me at the car.”

 

The desk sergeant frowned. “For a suicide, sir?” he said. “Can’t Marksbury handle that alone?”

 

Milner ignored him, limping out the door. _Couldn_ _’t be._ ** _Wouldn_** ** _’t_** _be._ Other women lived in that house, other young women. And Sam - there was no way Milner could imagine Sam giving up, no matter the situation, no matter how bad the news or how grim the circumstances.

 

 _But damn it, I wish the sergeant had got a name_.

 

The drive took an age, especially at Marksbury’s cautious pace, so different from Sam’s cheerfully competent dash. When they finally arrived, Milner saw with relief a familiar figure leaning against the front gate, arms folded tightly, gaze fixed on the pattern she was tracing on the pavement with the toe of one shoe.

 

 _I knew it_ , he thought, although until that second he had not in truth been entirely free from fear. _Sam would **never**_ _…_

He got out and limped toward her.

 

“Sam?” he said gently.

 

She looked up. “Paul,” she said with a watery smile. “Oh, I did _hope_ they would send you.”

 

“What happened? Are you alright?”

 

“Oh, _I_ _’m_ fine,” she said. “It was _Cicely_.”

 

She gave him an account, organised, precise, of what had happened, from Cicely Oswell’s - _two ells_ , she clarified - tearful revelation to the arrival of the ambulance, complete with who had said what and when they had said it, where they had been standing, and how she had secured the evidence by locking the door to Cicely’s room with the key she promptly handed over. Milner didn’t think any constable could have done better, and told her so.

 

Sam bit her lip. “I shouldn’t have left her alone,” she said.

 

“Sam, you saved her life,” Milner pointed out. “Look. Can you go in and tell them - the other witnesses - that I’m here? They’ll be more likely to talk to me if I come with your recommendation.”

 

“Of course,” Sam said, and went off to do just that.

 

Milner beckoned Marksbury over. “Drive over to Mr Foyle’s,” he said quietly. “Tell him what’s happened - tell him Sam is fine - and then come back to pick me up. And -”

 

Marksbury winked. “And if I have a passenger on the return journey, makes no never mind?”

 

“Exactly,” Milner said.

 

There was not much more information to glean from the other witnesses - Sam’s account had been comprehensive - except that Milicent Lovell had heard _somebody_ , possible Cicely Oswell, coming in at a little past four that morning. Without knowing how long the young woman had lain unconscious, it would not do much to pin-point the location of her assault, but it was better than nothing.

 

“And I’m sorry to be rude,” Milicent said, “but I really do urgently need to get to work. I’m quite happy to give any statement you need, for however long you like, but -”

 

“I understand,” Milner said. “WAF, wasn’t it?”

 

“Clerk,” Milicent said. “Tedious clerical but small cog, big machine, and so on.”

 

“You can go,” Milner told her. “And you too, Dr Blackwell. Thank you for your time.”

 

The woman doctor got to her feet. “You’re going to charge that poor girl,” she said.

 

“It’s not up to me, doctor,” Milner said.

 

With a complete disregard for the presence of Sam, Millie, and Mrs Henderson, Dr Blackwell asked bluntly: “What about the bloody bastard who attacked her?”

 

“I’ll do everything I can,” Milner said, and then admitted: “Unless she can give a statement, that may not be much.”

 

Dr Blackwell snorted. “Always the same,” she said. “Men play, women pay.”

 

Milner would have liked to have defended his gender, but, he knew, now was not the time. “I’ll do everything I can,” he repeated instead. “If you - if _any_ of you - can persuade her to talk to the police about what happened, we’ll have a much better chance of stopping this man.”

 

Dr Blackwell went out, muttering something about _stopping him with a scalpel,_ which remark Milner considered it the better part of valour not to hear. Millie made her escape in the direction of her bicycle, and Mrs Henderson headed for the stairs, _no doubt_ , Milner thought, remembering what Sam had said about her landlady in the past, _to make sure Marksbury_ _’s search of the room doesn’t do any damage._

 

Turning to the window, Milner saw the police car pulling up again.

 

Before it had entirely come to a halt, the passenger-side drawer opened, and Mr Foyle got out.

 

His boss - his _former_ boss - came up the front path at a rapid clip.

 

“Excuse me a moment,” Milner said to Sam, and went out into the hall, opening the front door as Mr Foyle reached it. “Sir,” he said.

 

“Milner,” Mr Foyle said. “How’s Sam?”

 

“Shaken,” Milner said. “The girl was her friend. She found her.”

 

“Any idea what happened?” Mr Foyle asked, stepping inside and removing his hat.

 

“Looks pretty clear cut, sir,” Milner said. “The girl - Cicely Oswell - was attacked last night. We don’t know by who, a soldier on leave who put something in her drink, from what she told Sam. She was very distressed this morning. Sam went to call a doctor, and when she came back, she found the girl hanging from her wardrobe.”

 

“My God,” Mr Foyle said, closing his eyes briefly. “Where is she?”

 

“In here, sir,” Milner said, opening the door to the living room.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Sam turned as the door opened. “Paul, I remembered -”

 

But it wasn’t Paul Milner in the doorway. It was Mr Foyle.

 

Sam thought, well aware that it was quite irrational, _oh well, everything will be alright now_. “Hello, sir,” she said. “Can I offer you some tea? No milk or sugar I’m afraid.”

 

“I’m sure Milner can find the kitchen,” Mr Foyle said, and behind him, Milner took the hint and headed off down the hall. “Why don’t you sit down?”

 

Obediently, she sat on the settee. Mr Foyle sat beside her.

 

“ _How_ are you?” he asked, studying her face.

 

“Oh, perfectly fine, sir,” she said, doing her best to smile, unable to meet his shrewd gaze. “It wasn’t very pleasant but Dr Blackwell said Cissy would very probably be alright.”

 

“Cissy, that’s Cecily Oswell?” Mr Foyle asked.

 

“Yes,” Sam said. “We all call her Cissy.” She paused. “Will they put her in gaol? I know it’s a crime.”

 

“It’s up to the magistrate,” Mr Foyle said. He touched her arm a moment. “What happened to her will probably be taken into account.”

 

“It should be,” Sam said. “She was terribly upset, well, _understandably_. I shouldn’t have left her alone.”

 

“Milner said you went to call a doctor?” Mr Foyle asked, and when Sam nodded: “That was the right thing to do, Sam.”

 

“I thought about calling the station,” Sam said. “But she didn’t want to talk to the police. I thought maybe I could persuade her, later.”

 

“A-and … you will still have the _chance_ ,” Mr Foyle said.

 

“Do you think we’ll catch him?” she asked.

 

“ _They_ ,” Mr Foyle said, reminding her - _as if I need reminding_ , Sam thought - that the police force was a collective noun that no longer included either of them. “ _They_ might catch him. Someone at the bar might have seen them leave together, might be able to identify him, or at least give a description.” He paused. “But if she won’t make a complaint, there’s not really a way to charge him.”

 

“And if she _does_ make a complaint,” Sam said with spirit, “half the town will say ‘well what was she doing having a drink with a man she didn’t know’. And look at her sideways when she walks past.”

 

Mr Foyle frowned a little. “Yes,” he said. “And if she _doesn_ _’t_ make a complaint, and we can’t charge this man, he’ll be free to … do the same thing to some other girl. So do try and persuade her, Sam.

 

Sam ran her finger through her hair, and then sat up straight as Milner returned with the tea. “ _I_ could make a complaint, sir.”

 

Mr Foyle frowned harder. “Sam. Did … have you …?”

 

“Oh, no,” she assured him, taking the mug from Milner. “But she _told_ me what happened. _I_ could report it. And go to court. I’d be _quite_ willing to.”

 

“That would only apply if she-” Milner said, and stopped short at Mr Foyle gave him a sharp look. “That is, the court wouldn’t accept it in this case, Sam.”

 

“Because she only _tried_ to kill herself,” Sam said, remembering what she’d read about the rules of evidence. “That doesn’t seem very fair.”

 

“Sometimes the law is unfair in some situations to be fair in general,” Mr Foyle said.

 

Milner muttered something that sounded a lot like _sometimes the law is an ass._

 

Mr Foyle raised an eyebrow. “Leaving Dickens out of it,” he said, “is there anything you can think of that you haven’t told Milner already?”

 

Sam thought, and shook her head. “I said almost exactly what she told me - I say, sir!”

 

“What is it?” Mr Foyle and Milner asked at almost the same moment.

 

“He must have a car,” Sam said. “Because _The Cat_ _’s Pyjamas_ is all the way over on the other side of town. Cissy rode her bicycle last night. She could _never_ have walked all the way back, not in the shoes she was wearing when she left. You can get the doctors at the hospital to check, sir, if her feet aren’t blistered to ribbons, she certainly didn’t walk all the way home.”

 

“So where-ever she was left must be much closer,” Milner said, nodding.

 

“Which means a car, or a van, doesn’t it?” Sam said. “Because I should think it would be bally hard to carry a woman you’ve hit over the head on a bicycle.” She sipped her tea. “Bally conspicuous, too, even in the blackout.”

 

“We don’t think he knocked her over the head,” Milner said, “but yes, either way.”

 

Sam frowned. “Then - oh, you mean he gave her a mickey?”

 

“It seems likely,” Milner said.

 

Mr Foyle touched her arm in the way he had that meant _I want your full attention, Samantha Stewart_. “So … no letting anyone buy you a drink until we … until _Milner_ locks this chap up. Understand?”

 

Sam nodded. “Perfectly, sir. No letting anyone buy me a drink.” She paused. “Unless it’s you, sir, since you’re not exactly paying me to type up your book.”

 

Mr Foyle looked amused. “Wouldn’t call what you’re doing … _exactly_ typing, either,” he said.

 

“It’s not my fault, sir, it’s the typewriter,” Sam said with spirit.

 

“We-ell you can give it a break this afternoon,” Mr Foyle said. The corner of his mouth twitched down in a smile. “Perhaps the rest will … do it good.”

 

“I really _am_ all right, sir,” Sam said. “But if it won’t slow you down too much, I _would_ like to go and see Cissy. Even if she’s not up to visitors, they’ll tell her I was there, and that matters.”

 

Mr Foyle gave her a sideways glance, then turned his attention to his teacup. Sam wondered if he, too, was remembering those days not quite a year ago when she’d been so ill. She hadn’t known at the time how many hours he’d spent sitting at her bedside, only that he was there every time she woke in the night, to call the nurse if she needed, to hold the glass for her to sip a little water if she was thirsty, to murmur reassurances until she could sleep again. She hadn’t known then, either, how very ill she had in fact been: only that her failing body refused her stern commands to mend itself so she could back to work, where Mr Foyle needed her.

 

Not that he needed her now. Sam sighed, wrapping her fingers around her mug. Truth be told, Mr Foyle was a better typist than she herself was, and his book would be progressing _much_ faster without her dubious ‘assistance’. It was a warming thought that he would find an excuse for her company, but she very well knew it was precisely that, an _excuse_ , unlike the days when she was really _necessary_ , when he couldn’t go anywhere without her.

 

“She’ll be alright, Sam,” Mr Foyle said, touching her arm gently, and Sam realised he had heard her sigh and misinterpreted its meaning. _And really, it is **too** bad of me to be feeling sorry for myself for not having the best job ever any more after what_ _’s happened._

She straightened her shoulders. “Yes, sir, I know,” she said. _And even if I_ _’m not with the police anymore, that doesn’t mean I’m_ ** _useless_** _. If I can persuade Cissy to talk to Paul about what happened, that will be very useful indeed._

Milner offered to drive her to the hospital, but Sam pointed out that his time would be much better spent trying to find anyone who’d seen Cissy - and the man she’d encountered there - at the bar.

 

“Anyway,” she said cheerfully, “the hospital’s closer than Beverley Lodge and I ride there and back every day. So you go on and detect things, and I’ll call the station if Cissy is ready to talk to you.”

 

She shooed him out after extracting a promise to keep her informed about the investigation. That of necessity meant Mr Foyle went as well, since he no longer had car and driver of his own. Sam waved them off with her best bright smile, which was a _bit_ of an effort but one she managed secure in the knowledge that she was about to play an absolutely _crucial_ part in the case.

 

Her conviction that she could still be useful survived a _very_ trying conversation with Mrs Henderson about poor Constable Marksbury’s boots and a ride to the hospital which was rather longer than she had remembered it, on what had become quite a warm day indeed. She felt as if victory was within her grasp when the doctor allowed her in to see Cissy, but the sight of her friend’s bruised neck and wan face _quite_ took the wind out of her sails.

 

 _How can I talk to her about what happened when she_ _’s in such a state_?

 

_Well, I just **have** to, that_ _’s all there is to it. That’s what police do, after all. Mr Foyle and Paul have to go and tell people their husband or wife or child is dead or hurt and then straight away ask them all sorts of things._

 

Sam tried, but she obviously wasn’t as good at it as Mr Foyle. _If he hadn_ _’t left me waiting in the car all those times, perhaps I would have learned to do this better_. Cissy was adamant that she wouldn’t, _couldn_ _’t_ , talk to the police. Trying to persuade her only resulted in sobs so hysterical that the nurse asked Sam to leave.

 

The ride home seemed twice as long and twice as hot. As she approached Hastings proper, Sam impulsively turned left instead of right and soon found herself in Mr Foyle’s street.

 

He opened the door almost immediately when she rang the bell, gave her one quick look, and stepped back to let her enter. “Come in,” he said. “You look like you could use a cold drink.”

 

Sam gave a great sigh of relief as she stepped over the threshold into the cooler house. “Rather, sir, thanks awfully. Do you mind if I freshen up a bit?”

 

“Not at all,” he said, heading toward the kitchen.

 

Five minutes later, face washed and hair combed, Sam was seated in Mr Foyle’s living room with a glass of ginger beer in one hand and a sandwich - _well, a sandwich of **sorts** \- _ in the other. Between bites and gulps, she told him about her visit to Cissy.

 

“It was just so plurry awful,” she finished. “I didn’t have the first _idea_ of the proper thing to say, and I’m afraid I did more harm than good.”

 

My Foyle eyed her empty plate. “Another?”

 

“Oh, no, sir, I couldn’t possibly,” Sam said virtuously.

 

“Sure?”

 

“Well. If you _insist_.”

 

Mr Foyle took her plate and glass and went to the kitchen. When he returned after a few moments, Sam asked: “What _should_ I have said, sir? What would _you_ have said to persuade her?”

 

He grimaced, handing her the provisions. “We-ell, might not have been anything I _could_ say.”

 

“But you must have investigated - this _sort of thing_ before,” Sam said.

 

“Ye-es, but in those cases, the women were already willing to talk to the police,” Foyle pointed out. “Otherwise I wouldn’t have been involved. You mustn’t feel bad about it, Sam. Cicely Oswell isn’t at … _all_ unusual in not wanting to make a police report. She might change her mind, but if she doesn’t, it won’t be your fault.”

 

Sam sighed. “I just feel so bally helpless,” she confessed. “This _bounder_ is out there somewhere and you said yourself, sir, that men like that are creatures of habit. What if he - _attacks_ \- some other poor girl?”

 

“Then _she_ might be willing to make a report,” Mr Foyle said.

 

“That’s a bit heartless, if you don’t mind me saying, sir,” Sam said. “Wouldn’t it be better to stop him _before_ anyone else gets hurt?”

 

“Of course it would,” Mr Foyle said a little sharply. “That’s not always how it goes with police work, though, Sam, you _know_ that.”

 

She nodded. “I do,” she said. In apology, she added: “This is a very nice sandwich, sir.”

 

“It’s absolutely terrible but I’ve nothing else,” Mr Foyle said with a downwards smile, and Sam knew her apology was accepted.

 

She called in at the station before heading home to Mrs Henderson’s, to learn from Brookie that Milner was stationing several constables in ordinary clothes in _The Cat_ _’s Pyjamas_ and several other similar nightspots, to keep an eye out for any soldiers on leave paying attentions to women by themselves.

 

“So I’m clearing out all the cells,” Brookie said with a roll of his eyes. “Since we’re likely to have half the Essex County Division, the 45th Infantry and the 6th Airborne in for questioning by midnight.”

 

“Don’t be silly, Brookie,” Sam said robustly. “The 6th Airborne was transferred to Aldershot two weeks ago.”

 

It was hard to get his words out of her head as she cycled home, though. _He might be exaggerating,_ she thought as she leaned her bicycle against the side of the house, _but he_ _’s right. The bars and pubs are full of men on leave who’d buy a woman on her own a drink perfectly innocently._

_Well. Not exactly **perfectly** innocently, but certainly without **criminal**_ _intent._

_The only way to make sure he_ _’s the right man before they arrest him is if he tries again. If he attacks some poor defenceless girl._

She stopped dead on the doorstep.

 

_Or some girl who isn_ _’t defenceless at all._

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

“Now remember,” Sam said to Millie, pausing at the end of the street that led to _The Cat_ _’s Pyjamas_ , “we mustn’t seem to be together. But don’t go anywhere I can’t _see_ you. And _don_ _’t_ drink anything you haven’t bought yourself.”

 

Milicent Lovell nodded. “Got it,” she said crisply. “But won’t that look suspicious if this chap _does_ try something? If he does buy one of us a drink and we don’t drink it, he’ll know there’s no point.”

 

“Tip it in your handbag or something,” Sam suggested.

 

Millie sighed. “This is my _last_ handbag,” she said. “But alright. And if you think he’s taken the bait, then signal to me when you leave, and I’ll do the same. Drop our handbag as we leave. And whichever one of us it _isn_ _’t_ …”

 

“Grab the constable,” Sam finished. “I’ll sort of discreetly point out which one he is when we get inside.”

 

“Right,” Millie said. She squared her shoulders. “I’ll go in first. Count one hundred, then follow.”

 

Sam watched the small, upright figure march down the street as if to face a firing squad. _One, two, three_ …

 

She wasn’t entirely sure it was a brilliant idea to involve Millie. _After all, she_ _’s never been with the police._

 

But it would have been an even less brilliant idea to come alone. _What if the constable blinks or something and misses me leaving_?

 

_Twenty, twenty-one, twenty-two_ _…_

 

And, Sam knew, if she’d suggested her plan to Milner he wouldn’t have had a bar of it. _I_ _’m just another civilian now, as far as police investigations go_.

 

_Fifty-three, fifty-four, fifty-five_ _…_

And Millie was level-headed and jolly good in an emergency. If something _did_ happen, there was no chance she’d panic. She’d even made Sam draw a map of the bar and then show her on a map of Hastings where the nearest telephone boxes were before they’d both changed into as much finery as wartime rationing would allow and set out on their bicycles.

 

 _Seventy-nine, eighty_ …

 

Sam had to admit to herself she was a bit nervous. _This is like proper undercover police work. And Mr Foyle wasn_ _’t_ ** _entirely_** _wrong those times he suggested it wasn_ _’t exactly my_ ** _strong_** _point._

But proper women police officers did it. _I_ _’ve read about it_. And probably, at least some of _them_ had been scared, too.

_Ninety-nine, one hundred._

 

Sam started down the street.

 

She’d been to Cat’s Pyjamas only once or twice, with Andrew, but she saw immediately as she entered that little had changed: the face behind the bar was one she didn’t recognise, and the decor had worn to the edge of shabbiness, but that was about all. Making her way to the bar, she scanned the room for a face she might recognise from the station, hoping as she did so that she merely looked like a girl checking to see if her fellow had arrived. _There_. Marksbury’s curly blond hair, that had earned him the nickname ‘Choirboy’, was unmistakable. She glanced around, spotted Millie sitting on her own, and discreetly signalled with her chin.

 

Millie gave a tiny nod, and sipped what looked like a Gin and It.

 

Sam ordered her own drink and found a place to drink it. She sipped slowly, as much out of consideration for her limited means as to keep a clear head, and made sure to look at her watch, and the door, a few times, trying to display increasing impatience each time. Finally she frowned and sighed, as if no longer able to deny the fact that her chap had stood her up.

 

 _There_. The hook was set. Now to see if anyone would take the bait …

 

“Excuse me,” a man’s voice said, and Sam looked up to see a young man in the uniform of the Essex County Division. “Is this seat taken?”

  

“Well, I _was_ waiting for someone,” Sam said. “But it rather looks like he isn’t going to show.”

 

“Then perhaps you’ll allow me to buy you a drink?” the young soldier said with what Sam would have thought was a charming smile _if I didn_ _’t know what an absolute bounder he is_.

 

“Thank you,” she said. “I could rather use cheering up.”

 

While he went to the bar she stole a look at Millie, relieved to see the other woman looking back at her. _Perfectly safe_ , Sam told herself firmly. _I just won_ _’t swallow any of the drink he brings me and the plan will work perfectly._

 

When he came back with her drink and one for himself and introduced himself as ‘Samuel’, she was able to fill up several minutes exclaiming over the coincidence of them both being called ‘Sam’ while she eked out the drink she’d bought herself and waited for him to turn his back. The topic of names being exhausted, she started in on her non-existent chap and his failings, using Andrew as a template but calling him ‘Bill’ and being careful not to mention that he was the son of a former policeman.

 

Finally she managed to sneak the glass off the table and tip much of the contents into her handbag. It made the bag _squelch_ rather when she set it down again, _but at least, when I give it to Paul, he_ _’ll be able to get it analysed._ She was toying with her now half-empty glass when Samuel looked back.

 

“So do you, um,” she started, and then surprised herself with a jaw-cracking yawn she only just managed to cover with her hand. “Oh, gosh, I’m awfully sorry. I have such early starts and it’s an awfully long way to ride.”

 

“I know exactly what you mean,” Samuel said. “We’re out of bed before dawn and after a day of drill and marching, I can hardly keep my eyes open by dinner.”

 

“One thing I do hate about the war - apart from all the other things I hate about the war - is never getting a decent _lie-in_ ,” Sam confided, and yawned again. The fatigue of the morning’s frantic activity and the long ride seemed to settle over her like a shroud of lead. “I’m afraid I think I ought to go home.” Was that the right thing to say? Her mind was fuzzy with weariness, but it seemed to make sense that she would have to leave at some point. _He_ _’s not likely to try anything right here in the bar._

 

“Look, let me walk you,” Samuel said.

 

“I have my bicycle,” Sam said. “But you can walk me to _that_ , if you like.”

 

She managed to drop her bag on the way to the door, and bend to pick it up before Samuel could gallantly retrieve it for her. _Can_ _’t have him notice it’s_ ** _dripping_** _._ It seemed an awfully long way to the door and when she tried look around to see if Millie had caught the signal the walls slipped and slid around her in the _most_ peculiar manner. In the disorientation of leaving the lit bar for the blacked-out street outside she nearly lost her footing on the steps and Samuel caught her with an arm around her waist.

 

“Are you all right?” he asked.

 

“Oh, perfec’ly,” Sam assured him. “Jus’ tired. My bicycle - this way.” Trying to disentangle herself from his supporting arm and head down the street, she found her feet rather too far away from her head to obey commands and staggered sideways, catching herself against the wall. “Oopsy.”

 

Samuel caught her again. “Listen, maybe you shouldn’t ride home,” he said. “I think you’ve had a little bit too much to drink for that.”

 

“ ‘M fine,” Sam said, trying to push him away. There was something she had to remember, nagging at her under the warm fog of exhaustion that wrapped around her. _Something_ … perhaps she would remember it after she’d had a little nap. She could have one right here, if only the wall would hold still and the ground would stop rocking. “Fine.”

 

“How about a cab?’ Samuel said. “There’s one down there. My shout. I really don’t think you should try and cycle home, Samantha.”

 

 _Police!_ That was what she was supposed to remember. The police were coming. Sam squinted down the street and saw the dim bulk of a car. “A cab?”

 

“There’s usually one here,” Samuel said. “Come on. You can come back for your bicycle tomorrow.”

 

There really _was_ a cab at the end of the street. _Surely by the time we get there Millie will get Marksbury to pay attention_. She nodded agreement and the movement made the street whirl around her. She clutched on to Samuel to stay upright, although really, it would be much more sensible just to lie down and close her eyes for a moment.

 

“You really are a lightweight, aren’t you?” Samuel said, sounding amused. “Come on. Let’s get you home.”

 

He half-led, half-carried her down the street, supporting her as her recalcitrant feet tried to go out from under her. _Something_ _’s wrong_ , Sam thought distantly, unable to summon up any alarm at the thought. Perhaps she had a fever. The strange light-headedness and feeling as if everything was very far away was quite like a fever, but she didn’t feel the aching misery of fever, only a comforting warmness that assured her there was nothing to worry about, nothing at all …

 

Samuel’s face swum into her vision. “Where do you live?”

 

 _Where do I live_? Sam wondered. The question drifted away from her up into the night sky. _Mrs Henderson_ _’s, that’s right._ She tried to say so but her lips were too numb, her tongue too thick, to form the words. She felt Samuel take her handbag from her shoulder and then heard him exclaim in surprise, _probably,_ Sam thought disinterestedly, _at finding it filled with my drink._

 

He said something to the cab driver, and then Sam felt herself being put into the backseat of the car. She vaguely expected Samuel to get in beside her, and knew that would be a Very Bad Thing.

 

Somewhere in the distance was the shrilling of a police whistle. Sam heard it with a sense of relief she couldn’t quite make connect with anything else. Samuel shut the cab door on her and turned away. Through the window Sam saw running figures, dim and wavering as if underwater. The whistle came again, then another from the other direction. Everything seemed to be getting further and further away, but she could make out Marksbury’s fair hair as he seized Samuel by the collar.

 

 _Well, **that**_ ** _’s_** _alright, then_ , Sam thought, her mind moving as slowly as treacle. She closed her eyes and let the motion of the car lull her to sleep.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

“Put him in the interview room,” Paul Milner told Sergeant Brooke, and Brookie nodded and led Private Samuel Fisher down the hall. “Marksbury, where’s Miss Lovell?”

 

“In your office, sir,” Marksbury said. “And Constable Jenson’s taken a car to meet the cab at Miss Stewart’s and bring her back here.” At Milner’s raised eyebrow, he explained: “Where-ever Fisher was planning to take her, Miss Stewart would have redirected the cab. Since she hasn’t had it bring her here, her home seemed likely.”

 

Milner nodded. “And not a sign of whatever Fisher’s been using on him?”

 

“No, sir, he must have ditched it. The street is being searched.”

 

“And the glass? There might be enough to analyse.”

 

“The table had been cleared by the time I got back inside,” Marksbury said. “I’m sorry, sir, I know I should have secured the evidence straight away.”

 

“Protecting the public takes a higher priority,” Milner assured him.

 

“Miss Lovell did say she saw Miss Stewart pour her drink into her handbag,” Marksbury said. “Can the MO analyse that?”

 

“Very probably,” Milner said. “Alright. Write up your report. I’ll talk to Miss Lovell.”

 

“Sir …” Marksbury said. “Should someone tell Mr Foyle? Miss Stewart being involved?”

 

Milner winced at the thought of the likely reaction of his old boss to the news that Sam and her billet-mate had blithely set out to trap Fisher with themselves as the bait. However, that reaction would be unlikely to be improved if Mr Foyle learned he’d been kept in the dark over the matter. He nodded. “Yes. Get your report down while it’s still fresh and then get over there and let him know.”

 

Marksbury swallowed hard. “ _Me_ , sir?” he said.

 

Milner clapped him on the shoulder. “You can tell him you arrested the suspect at the same time.” _That might improve his temper. And likely Jenson will be back with Sam by then._

 

“Yes, sir,” Marksbury said unhappily, and headed for his desk.

 

Milner limped down the hall to his office. Through the open door he could see that Milicent Lovell had, with what he considered remarkable _sangfroid_ , rested her head on her folded arms on his desk and taken a nap.

 

He cleared his throat. “Miss Lovell?”

 

She sat up with a start. “Oh, I’m sorry. It’s been a rather long day.”

 

“I’m sure it has,” Milner said politely. “I’d just like to go through your statement once more, and then we’ll see if we can get someone to drive you home.”

 

Millie nodded, and put her hand over her mouth to stifle a yawn. “Of course. Anything I can do to help. Thank goodness that nice young constable got hold of that rotter before he got in the cab!”

 

“It was a very lucky escape,” Milner said, “and things might easily have been very different. I hope this will teach you not to be so foolish again.”

 

Millie nodded, although she didn’t look particularly repentant despite his stern tone. “Yes, it wasn’t terribly sensible, I suppose. But all’s well that ends well.”

 

Milner took Millie through what she’d told Marksbury at the scene of the attempted abduction, but she had nothing more to add to her account: the damnably reckless plan, Fisher’s approach to Sam, the signal of the dropped handbag and then Millie alerting Marksbury to Sam’s peril.

 

By the time she finished she was clearly flagging, eyelids drooping with fatigue. Milner thanked her, added one more admonition to never even consider engaging in such a dangerous exploit again, and left her to wait for a spare car and driver to take her home.

 

Marksbury had left on his errand to Mr Foyle’s, but the constable’s report was on his desk, and Milner glanced through it. It told him nothing more. He considered starting the interview with Fisher, but without the hole card of physical evidence, it would be better to allow the wait to unsettle the man. Milner knew he himself didn’t have Mr Foyle’s knack for extracting confessions.

 

As if summoned by the thought, his former boss strode through the front door, hat in one hand, frown in place.

 

Mr Foyle swept the room with a glance and then fixed Milner with a narrowed gaze. “Where is she?”

 

“Constable Jenson has gone to pick her up, sir,” Milner said, putting the report back on Marksbury’s desk. “He’s yet to return?”

 

Mr Foyle chewed the inside of his cheek. “How long ago was that?” he asked crisply.

 

Milner checked the time on the station clock, and was surprised to see how late it had gotten. “Nearly forty minutes ago.”

 

“Shouldn’t take that long, should it,” Mr Foyle said.

 

“No, sir,” Milner admitted, embarrassed. “He may have had a flat, or engine trouble.”

 

“Mmm,” Mr Foyle said. “Or he may not. Marksbury said you had another witness?”

 

“Yes, sir, Miss Millicent Lovell, one of the young women billeted at the house with Sam and Miss Oswell. She and Sam hatched the plan together.”

 

“I doubt that,” Mr Foyle said dryly. “Knowing Sam. What else did she say?”

 

Milner filled him in, and Mr Foyle nodded. “Mind if I have a word with Miss Lovell?”

 

Milner hesitated, and then said diffidently. “She _is_ a witness, sir. And you not being with the force anymore …”

 

Mr Foyle grimaced. “You don’t want Fisher’s brief to argue I suggested any of Miss Lovell’s testimony to her. I understand.” He rubbed his forehead with one finger and shot Milner a glance. “Can I have a word?”

 

Milner nodded and led the way out into the hall.

 

“Look,” Mr Foyle said rapidly and quietly, “didn’t want to say anything in front of Marksbury, it’s your investigation, _obviously_ , but if you wouldn’t mind me giving you some advice?”

 

“Of course not, sir,” Milner said readily.

 

“Doesn’t it seem _odd_ to you that Sam didn’t stop the cab as soon as Marksbury collared Fisher?”

 

“Perhaps she didn’t see,” Milner pointed out. “The cab may have been too far away, and with the blackout …”

 

“And why didn’t Fisher get into the cab with her, make his escape? Not much of an abduction, was it?”

 

“He heard the police whistles,” Milner said, “and hoped to brazen it out, rather than be caught in the cab with her. He threw the bottle or envelope with the drug in it away before Marksbury got there - we’re still looking for it, but we’ll have better luck in the morning.”

 

“Does it seem like Sam to have just taken the cab home in the middle of all the excitement?” Mr Foyle said. “If she _didn_ _’t_ see the arrest, she’d have come straight here to report Fisher. And if she _did_ , she would have stopped the cab.”

 

“That’s true,” Milner said, frowning.

 

“Did you ask Miss Lovell if they had any fall-back? A place to meet up if they got separated?”

 

“No,” Milner said, flushing as he realised his oversight.

 

“Maybe do that now?” Mr Foyle suggested.

 

Milner nodded, and led the way to his office. Milicent Lovell had gone to sleep, head pillowed on her arms, and again Milner cleared his throat, and then rapped on the open door. “Miss Lovell?”

 

“Mmm?” She sat up, blinking blearily.

 

“Did you and Sam have anywhere to meet up, if you were separated this evening?”

 

Millie frowned. “Don’ thin’ so,” she said, and yawned hugely, then, without ceremony, put her head back down on her arms.

 

“Excuse me,” Mr Foyle said, and Milner stepped aside. Mr Foyle went to Millie and crouched down in front of her. “Miss Lovell? My name is Foyle. How are you feeling?”

 

“’M tired,” Millie mumbled without moving.

 

Mr Foyle took her wrist, fingers on the pulse point. “Miss Lovell, can you sit up? Just for a moment.”

 

Millie pushed herself upright, and Mr Foyle studied her face. “Did Private Fisher buy _you_ any drinks?”

 

She shook her head. “No. No-one did. Jus’ me.”

 

“Thank you,” Mr Foyle said. He stood up again, and, crossing to Milner, spoke in a low, rapid voice. “Get a doctor for her, and get someone in here to get her on her feet, walk her around. Unless I’m very much mistaken, she’s been dosed with chloral hydrate.”

 

“But how?” Milner asked. “She said Fisher was nowhere near her.”

 

“Which means someone else drugged her,” Mr Foyle pointed out. “Someone who handled the drink she bought herself.”

 

“The bartender!” Milner said.

 

“Exactly.” Mr Foyle rubbed his forehead. “And since you said that in her statement, Miss Lovell said that _Sam_ also bought a drink for herself …”

 

“My god,” Milner said, appalled.

 

“Explains why she didn’t stop the cab,” Mr Foyle said, pinching the bridge of his nose with his fingers. “I think it would be quite a good idea to _find_ her.”

 

“Yes, sir,” Milner said, and hurried down the hall to get all available men on the search.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Sam drifted slowly up from the depths of sleep. The first thing she was aware of was that she was not lying comfortably in her own bed, but huddled in the corner of a seat. The cool glass against her forehead and the leather beneath her brought it back. _The cab. Of course._

 

As she tried to summon up the impetus to open her eyes, to move, to speak, the car stopped.

 

“You took your time,” a man’s voice said, not the cab driver, Sam thought, but someone outside the car. It seemed vaguely familiar to Sam.

 

“Did you see all those coppers?” the driver answered. “They collared the Tommy who put our lass in the car right as I was driving away. Didn’t think it’d be too smart to come straight here.”

 

 _Our lass_. That, Sam felt sure, was herself. The Tommy in question must have been Samuel.

 

“Stupid bugger’s probably over-stayed his leave,” the first voice said, and suddenly Sam knew where she’d heard it before. _The bartender at the Cat_ _’s Pyjamas_.

 

“Gave me a hell of a shock,” the driver said. “Still, she’s out good and proper.” Sam heard the creak of leather as he turned to look at her and she kept her eyes firmly shut.

 

“She should be,” the bartender said. “The Tommy bought her a drink as well. She had some of her own and most of that one before she left. She’ll be out for hours.”

 

 _Criminy!_ Although her mind still felt thick and slow, Sam could put the pieces together _. Not a soldier after all, but the bartender_ _… and the cab driver conveniently positioned to catch the eye of anyone suddenly too under the weather to make their own way home._

_So much for only having drinks I bought myself._ Both her own beer and the one Samuel had bought her must have been dosed behind the bar before they were even handed over.

Which meant she herself was in terrible danger - and even though Millie and the police must have realized she’d been in the cab, trying to trace it in the blackout would be next to impossible.

 

Still, she had an advantage - neither of the two men expected her to be awake. Though the heaviness of her eyelids and the remote quality of the alarm she felt told her that the mickey she’d ingested had far from worn off, they thought she’d had twice as much. She could, at the very least, scream.

 

 _If there_ _’s anyone to hear me_.

 

Venturing to crack an eyelid, nothing through the window gave her a clue on that front. They could have been in a street of warehouses empty for the night or in street of occupied houses: in the blackout, everything looked much the same.

 

Suddenly the door against which she leaned was yanked open and Sam only just managed to stop herself from catching her balance, instead letting herself flop out like the unconscious victim they assumed she was. Hands caught her shoulders before she hit the ground, and she was dragged limply from the car. From the smell of the sea and the slight breeze, she judged she was outdoors, which was good: _if I can get away_ , she thought, _at least I won_ _’t be trying to get out of a locked door or something._

 

The sound of a creaking hinge nearby alerted her to the fact that this state of affairs wouldn’t last. _Now or never, I suppose!_

 

As she felt the man who’d pulled her from the car stoop over her, Sam gritted her teeth and commanded her still-cottony legs to obey her. He was trying to pick her up bodily, leaning down to get his arm beneath her knees.

 

_One_ _… two …_ **_now_ ** _!_

She opened her eyes and jack-knifed upward. Her knee made a satisfying impact with his face, and as he swore and dropped her, she rolled over and scrambled to her feet. _One behind me_ _… the other’s over there on my left_ … She lunged for the clear path to her right and bolted.

 

Her bally legs were still wobbly, and her blurry vision didn’t make navigating the blackout any easier, _not to mention these aren_ _’t the shoes I’d choose for running_ , but the shout of “Get her!” from behind inspired her to greater speed. A corner loomed and she lurched around it as the cab’s engine started up.

 

Desperately, Sam tried to find a landmark that would let her know where she was. _I_ _’ve driven Mr Foyle down every street in Hastings. There_ ** _must_** _be something_ _…_ ahead of her, a shopfront caught her eye and she stumbled toward it.

 

The gold lettering in the window that announced it to be _Pilchard_ _’s Hardware_ was the best thing she’d ever seen in her life. The geography of the town organized itself around her, her mental map telling her exactly where she must be.

 

And exactly where the nearest phone box was.

 

The sound of tires behind her reminded her that she had another, more pressing, problem.

 

 _First order of business, lose that bally car_.

 

Sam turned left, then right, the cab getting closer every minute. It was almost on her when she found the lane-way she remembered - a handy shortcut for pedestrians, a narrow nightmare for drivers. She herself had nearly lost a mirror the one time she had tried to take the car down it. Flinging herself forward, she staggered as fast as she could, hearing the sound of the car getting further away. A trash can loomed in front of her, almost making her trip, and she seized it and flung it behind her before running on.

 

A car door opening, a male voice swearing: the driver had realized the cab was a hindrance, not a help. That evened the odds, and she had a head start: now all she had to do was keep it long enough to get to the phone box and call the station.

 

She was still two blocks away when she realized she wasn’t going to make it. She might know the terrain better than her pursuers, but they were unhampered by shoes with heels or by the drug that still fogged her vision and made the ground shift unpredictably. They would catch her, and then … and then …

 

Sam dragged air into her burning lungs and tried to yell for help, but her voice came out as a thin croak. _One more block_ … the footsteps behind were almost on her.

 

Out of nowhere, Jen’s face swam up from memory, starkly lit by the beam of a torch, her breath fogging on the cold night’s air. _My name is rather less important_ , she’d told Standish, _than the fact that I have come here with a dozen men_ _…_

Men who had not existed, men who were nothing but a lie to make Standish hesitate.

 

Sam rounded the last corner. Out of sight of the two men who chased her, although she knew it would only be for a few seconds, she raised her voice: “They’re right back there! Jolly good to see you, Sergeant!”

 

Behind her, the footsteps stopped, and then she heard them retreat rapidly away.

 

With a sob of relief, Sam forced herself onward. The phone box swam into view and she flung herself into it, fingers numb and clumsy as she fumbled with the receiver. “Operator? Hastings Police Station. It’s an egern - emgern - urgent.”

 

It seemed to take forever to connect the call. Her wobbly legs finally gave up and she sank to the floor, clutching the receiver. Exhaustion tried to claim her, the weight of it insisting that it wouldn’t do any harm to close her eyes, to rest a moment, just a moment …

 

Brookie’s voice said: “Hastings Police Station.”

 

“Brookie!” Sam gasped. “The bar-tender - the cab-driver - it’s _them_.”

 

“Miss Stewart?” Brookie asked.

 

Then Mr Foyle was there on the other end of the line. Sam knew she should be surprised, since he was so thoroughly retired, but the idea seemed to be a very long way away from her and terribly terribly small. “Sam?” he said. “Where are you?”

 

“Corner of George and Washburn,” she said automatically.

 

“Are you alright? Are you safe?”

 

“I don’t know,” Sam said tiredly.

 

There was a pause so small she thought she might have imagined it. “We’re coming, Sam,” Mr Foyle said, rather as if he was announcing the tendency of the sun to rise in the east. “Just hold on.”

 

“Holding on, sir,” Sam said, and finally let her eyes close.

 

* * *

 

 

“No word from Jenson?” Foyle asked Milner.

 

“No, sir. And no sign of the cab.” Milner added: “Yet.”

 

Foyle glanced at the clock. _Nearly an hour now_. He saw Milner follow his gaze, and from the younger man’s drawn face Foyle guessed he, too, was thinking of how many terrible things could happen in less time than had already elapsed.

 

“I’m sorry, sir,” Milner said. “This was my fault - I should have realized something was wrong earlier.”

 

There were a range of things Foyle could think of in response to that, including _Yes, you bloody well should have_ , but the presence of Sergeant Brooke and Constable Marksbury prevented him. Rebuking Milner in front of the men he commanded would be unforgivable. He settled instead for: “Sam gets herself into the most damnable scrapes, Sergeant,” which had the advantage of being both tactful and entirely true.

 

“Yes, sir,” Milner said, “but -”

 

The desk phone rang. Sergeant Brooke pounced on it. After a second’s listening, he said: “Miss Stewart?”

 

“Marksbury,” Milner said quietly, “Use the line in Mr Foyle’s-” He caught himself. “In _Mr Meredith_ _’s_ office. Get on to the exchange and find out where this call is coming from.”

 

Marksbury ran down the corridor.

 

Foyle held out his hand and Brooke immediately put the receiver in it. “Sam?” he said. “Where are you?”

 

“Corner of George and Washburn,” she said immediately. _Trust Sam to know exactly where in Hastings she was, blindfold._ The slurring of her voice troubled him, though.

 

“Are you alright?” he asked. “Are you safe?”

 

Her voice was very small as she answered: “I don’t know.”

 

 _Oh, Sam._ “We’re coming, Sam,” he said, as firmly and confidently as he could. “Just hold on.”

 

“Holding on, sir,” Sam said.

 

He gave the receiver back to Brooke. “Keep talking to her,” he said.

 

“Will do, sir,” Brooke said, and into the phone. “It’s me again, Miss Stewart, Brookie.”

 

Marksbury came back at a run. “Phone box,” he panted. “Corner of Washburn and -”

 

“George,” Foyle said. “Get the car.”

 

He and Milner were close behind Marksbury and soon they were driving through the darkened streets. _Too slowly_ , Foyle thought. _Lad_ _’s far too uncertain for police driving._

_Sam would have us there by now._

He strangled that thought, and leaned forward in the back seat to say: “Constable, you could probably go a little faster.”

 

Marksbury gave an audible gulp. “Yes, sir,” he said, and increased the speed of the car by, Foyle judged, about one-eighth of a mile per hour.

 

Finally they approached their destination. Foyle was out of the car before it had entirely stopped, Milner a close second. Foyle heard the other man’s uneven footsteps behind him as he reached the phone box and yanked open the door to see Sam, curled on the floor with the receiver still clutched in her hand, apparently asleep, Brooke’s voice still audible on the other end of the line.

 

He prised the receiver from Sam’s hand, said brusquely: “We’ve got her. Hang up and call an ambulance,” and let the receiver dangle from the cord. “Sam. _Sam_. Open your eyes. _Sam_.”

 

She stirred drowsily. Foyle found the pulse at her wrist and found it steady. _No blood, her clothes aren_ _’t torn_ … Perhaps the worst he’d feared hadn’t happened.

 

“Sam, wake up now. You have to wake up.”

 

“ ‘llo sir,” she said without opening her eyes.

 

“Are you all right?” Foyle asked. He searched her scalp carefully but found no abrasions, no signs of a head injury.

 

“Fine,” Sam said. “Jus’ tired.”

 

The booth was cramped, but Foyle managed to get Sam under the arms and pull her out onto the cobbles. “Help me get her up,” he said to Marksbury, and the young constable pulled Sam’s arm over his shoulders and helped Foyle lift her to her feet. “Stay awake, Sam. You have to walk.”

 

“Pilchard’s Hardware,” she said carefully and slowly.

 

“Sorry?”

 

Sam opened one eye and peered at him owlishly. “Pilchard’s Hardware. One block east. Of it. Where they took me. The bartender ‘n’ the cabbie.”

 

Foyle braced himself against her weight. “Take Marksbury,” he said to Milner. “Get after them. I’ll stay with Sam until the ambulance gets here.”

 

“Yes, sir,” Milner said, and a moment later, the two police officers were gone.

 

“It was th’ bartender,” Sam said in a tired thread of a voice.

 

“We know,” Foyle told her. He had to put both his arms around her waist to hold her up as she sagged. “Come on Sam, you have to walk a little.”

 

She leaned her head against his shoulder with a sigh. “ ‘m tired,” she complained.

 

“Hold on, Sam,” Foyle said. “The ambulance will be here soon.”

 

“’m fine,” she said sleepily, nestling more comfortably against him. “Just need to rest a sec.”

 

“You need to walk,” he said. “Just a little, Sam. Come on. Try for me. Left foot. Right foot. Left foot, right foot.”

 

She shuffled obediently.

 

“Good,” Foyle said. “Left foot. Right foot. That’s it. Left foot. Right foot.” If there had been music, they would have been dancing, making a slow circuit of the street, his arms around her waist, hers draped about his shoulders. If not for the excuse of necessity, it would have been quite inappropriate between employer and employee. _Former employee and former employee_ , Foyle corrected himself.

 

“This is nice,” Sam murmured. “Y’re nice.”

 

“Walk, Sam,” Foyle said firmly.

 

“Y’ nev’r took me dancing b’fore,” she said.

 

“I’m not taking you dancing _now_ ,” Foyle said, a little startled to hear his thoughts echoed aloud. “You need to keep moving. Try to stay awake. The drink you had was dosed with chloral hydrate.”

 

“I _know_ ,” Sam said peevishly. “ ‘m not _stupid_.”

 

 _You were damnably stupid tonight_ , Foyle thought, but he bit his tongue. _Time enough to take her to task when the mickey_ _’s worn off_.

 

“Cab-driver,” Sam said. “Tha’s how they worked it. Some poor chap jus’ trying to be _nice_ looks like the villain.”

 

“I know,” Foyle said. “Left foot, right foot.”

 

She raised her head a little. “ _How_ do you know?”

 

“I worked it out,” Foyle said with some asperity, “about five minutes after Constable Marksbury told me you were missing, last seen in the back of a cab.”

 

“Wish you’d worked it out _sooner_ ,” Sam complained, and nestled her head against his neck again. “Was quite _horrid_.”

 

Foyle paused. _But the hospital will need to know._ “Did they … _hurt_ you?”

 

“No,” Sam said, and Foyle closed his eyes a moment in relief. “I jolly well _kicked_ him and ran. Then Jen saved me.”

 

“Jen?” Foyle tried to locate a Jen or Jennifer from the local area in the files of his memory. _Jennifer_ _Howard, but she_ _’s across town … Jenny Pollack moved home to her mother three months ago …_

“Jen Chenard. Or Pawley. Or whatever,” Sam said. “ _Secret_ Jen.”

 

“Did you see her?” Foyle asked carefully. _If she_ _’s hallucinating_ , _there might have been something else in that drink._

“No,” Sam said. “Not like _that_. I remembered what she did. With that plurry cad Standish. Pretending. So I pretended. That Milner and you were there. An’ they ran away.” She paused. “Was jolly clever, _I_ thought.”

 

“We-ell,” Foyle said, relieved she was becoming more alert. “at least you did _one_ clever thing tonight.”

 

“More th’n one,” Sam told him. “Poured m’ drink in m’ handbag. Can analyze.”

 

“Two clever things,” Foyle said, “and a dozen daft ones.” Sam seemed steadier on her feet, and he turned so they were instead side-by-side, supporting her with one arm around her waist, a more appropriate distance between them.

 

“Will we catch them?” she asked.

 

“ _They_ will, yes,” Foyle said. There might be areas of policework in which Milner could improve, but for dogged, patient, painstaking work he had no equal, and that was exactly what would be called for if the two men weren’t arrested tonight. _If it takes days, or weeks, or months, Milner will feel their collars._

“I wish it was still _us,_ ” Sam said sadly. “I wish I was still _useful_.”

 

“Sam,” Foyle said, seeing the dimmed headlights of the ambulance at the end of the street, “you’re still useful. I’d go so far as to say - ”

 

The ambulance pulled up and the medic leapt out. With a mingled sense of relief and indefinable disappointment, Foyle swallowed what he had almost said, and turned Sam over to medical care.

 

“I’ll see you at the hospital,” he told her as the doors closed.

 

Foyle settled his hat more firmly on his head, and turned back to the phonebox to update Brooke as, with a crash of gears that Sam herself would never have committed, the ambulance pulled away.

 

_Sam, you_ _’re still useful._

_I_ _’d go far as to say that to me -_

_You_ _’re essential._

It was indeed lucky the ambulance had arrived when it had, saving him from such impropriety.

 

Briskly, he lifted the dangling receiver, depressed the cradle, and dialed.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Marksbury steered the car carefully toward Pilchard’s Hardware. They were still several blocks away when Milner thought he heard another engine.

 

“Stop a moment, Constable,” he said, and Marksbury did. _Yes, definitely another car._ “Take the next left.”

 

They were half-way down Grove Street when Milner signaled to Marksbury to cut the engine once more. _No car in view, but that sound is close_ _…_

 

Then he remembered Sam’s over-enthusiastic pursuit of a fleeing suspect in her first few months as Mr Foyle’s driver, and smiled. “Pull up to the entrance of that alley, and stop across it,” he instructed, and got out.

 

Marksbury did, and Milner limped after the car. Over its roof he could see a cab, license plates missing, attempting to reverse out of the alley, just as Sam had had to that long-ago day. Wide enough to take a car at the Grove Street end, the alley narrowed before it reached Warrick Road and became too thin for any vehicle larger than a bicycle.

 

“Do the honors, Constable,” Milner said, and Marksbury leapt out and scrambled over the bonnet of the police car. He pelted towards the cab as the driver realized his peril and started to get out, but there wasn’t enough room to open the door fully and, just as Mr Foyle and Milner himself had been forced to slide carefully past the body of the car, the cabbie was all but stuck.

 

“Right, sunshine,” Marksbury said, indicating possibly too much time spent with Sergeant Brooke, “you’re nicked.”

He clapped one handcuff on the cabbie’s wrist and other on the door handle of the car as the man protested there was no law against taking a wrong turn, then peered inside. “Sir,” he said, “there’s a handbag in the bag.”

 

“Fish it out,” Milner said. Marksbury did and Milner recognized it. “That’s Miss Stewart’s,” he said.

 

“Some tipsy bint leaves her bag in my cab and you arrest me?” the cabbie said.

 

“Your vehicle has no license plate,” Milner said. “That’s an offense.”

 

“Fine me, then!”

 

“It gives us reason to examine your vehicle for other violations of the Road Traffic Act 1930,” Milner went on steadily. “And in doing so Constable Marksbury has located a handbag which I can personally identify as one belonging to a young woman who has just reported an abduction and attempted assault by a cab driver and his accomplice. Signal for reinforcements, Constable, and stay with him. I’ll check out the other location Miss Stewart gave.”

 

Marksbury nodded, and took out his whistle. “What should I do if he tries to escape, sir?”

 

Milner eyed the cabbie, securely handcuffed to his own car, and then gave Marksbury a steady look. The young constable had the grace to look abashed, and began to blow the ‘available officers’ signal.

 

Milner limped away. He found Pilchard’s Hardware, and then the block to the east of it that Sam had indicated.

 

The street was quiet. Milner made his way along, sweeping the cobbles with his torch. _They_ _’ve attacked two girls at least_ , he thought _, Sam and Cicely Oswell_. _They_ _’re not taking them to a random location. It’s somewhere they know, somewhere they have access, somewhere they feel safe against observation …_

There was a warehouse half way along the block that Milner remembered being used by _Bear_ _’s Books_ before the paper shortage had put them out of business. The building had been shuttered and locked since then - but the beam of his torch showed him that the padlock on the door was hung open.

 

He switched off his torch and listened. Was that a footfall inside the warehouse?

 

_Why would he return here, knowing Sam had escaped?_

_Because he has no car of his own_. The bartender must be waiting for the return of the cabbie, hoping they could make their escape together.

 

Home guard roadblocks would render any such attempt futile, but these two wouldn’t be the first to try it.

 

Milner considered waiting for more officers to arrive. His memory was unclear on whether the warehouse had a back door or not, but if he was right about the layout of the streets, it backed onto a lane way and there was likely an access.

 

_He could get away while I wait._

 

Or he could make a break for it when Milner entered the front, and Milner knew he couldn’t give effective chase.

 

He paused, and then raised his voice: “It’s locked, Constable. We’ll try round the back.”

 

He took a few heavy foot steps away from the door, and then re-approached it quietly.

 

Sure enough, a moment later, the door creaked open, and a figure peered out.

 

Milner grabbed him by the bicep and dragged him out into the street. The bartender struggled, but there was absolutely nothing wrong with Milner’s _arms_ and he shoved the other man against the wall and yanked his arm up behind his back.

 

“The young woman you abducted tonight,” he said evenly, “was a colleague for three years, and a good friend. So I’d consider it a personal favor if you’d continue to resist arrest.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

When Sam opened her eyes, the first thing she saw was Mr Foyle.

 

He was sitting in a straight-backed chair beside her hospital bed, hat propped neatly on his knee, reading, but he looked up as she watched him, and set the book aside.

 

“Hello, sir,” Sam said.

 

“How are you feeling?” he asked, studying her as if making his own, independent, assessment.

 

“Oh, tickety boo, sir,” Sam said. “Did they catch them?”

 

“Yep,” Mr Foyle said. “Milner and Marksbury caught the cabby trying to reverse out of that narrow alley that runs between Grove and Warrick. He was very willing to tell them how it was all the idea of his friend the bartender, particularly after they found your handbag in his back seat.”

 

“Good,” Sam said. She pushed herself to a sitting position, relieved to find her limbs obeying herself normally. “Well done me, then.”

 

“Very badly done you, _actually,_ ” Mr Foyle said crisply. “Were you out of your mind?”

 

 _Golly_ , Sam thought, _he_ _’s really angry._ Years of practice had trained her to tell the difference between _mildly irritated_ Mr Foyle and _absolutely bally livid_ Mr Foyle, as well as all points in between, and this was definitely right up the end of the spectrum that could possible register on the Richter scale. She straightened her shoulders, wishing that the nightgown the hospital had put her in was rather less flouncy, and made an effort to twist her hair up. “Women police officers do it all the time. I’ve read about it.”

 

“ _Not_ on their own, _not_ without anyone knowing where they are, _not_ without other officers nearby.” He frowned furiously at his hat. “My god, Sam! Do you realize how irresponsible you’ve been?”

 

“I wasn’t on my own,” Sam pointed out. “Millie was with me. And there _were_ officers nearby.”

 

“Oh, Miss Lovell, indeed,” Mr Foyle said with scathing politeness. “Do continue to explain how involving another defenseless young woman in your hare-brained scheme and putting _her_ in danger justifies any of this.”

 

“She’s safe, though, I remember seeing her with Marksbury,” Sam said. “Isn’t she? Sir?”

 

“She’s down the hall sleeping off a dose of the same stuff _you_ had,” Mr Foyle said.

 

“Well, that’s alright, then,” Sam said.

 

“Nothing about your behavior is remotely _alright_ ,” Mr Foyle said sharply.

 

Sam lifted her chin. “We caught them, though, sir.”

 

He got abruptly to his feet, hat in his hand. “You could have been very badly hurt.”

 

“I know, sir,” she said, a bit subdued. “I did think about it. But I couldn’t think of anything else to do.”

 

Mr Foyle gave her a sharp look. “You could have told _me_!”

 

“You would have told me not to do it,” Sam said.

 

“Well of course I bloody would!” Mr Foyle snapped. “You’re not a police officer, you’re not trained, and you obviously don’t have the sense god gave you!”

 

“Well that’s _really_ not fair, sir!” Sam shot back. Mr Foyle gave her Eyebrows One, which meant _stop right there if you know what_ _’s good for you_. For once in her life, Sam ignored it. “Milner got _shot_ arresting someone. _And_ beaten up, that time. And you never told him he shouldn’t have tried to catch those fellows or that he didn’t have any sense.”

 

“Yes, well that’s _somewhat_ different,” Mr Foyle said, clipping each word off tightly.

 

“I don’t see why.”

 

“Because he’s a _police officer_!” Mr Foyle said. “And you’re …”

 

“A girl?” Sam asked.

 

“A _civilian,_ ” Mr Foyle said pointedly.

 

“So are you, now, and you were there last night,” Sam said.

 

“Only because you got yourself in a damnable scrape,” Mr Foyle said. “You have no idea what could have happened to you, Sam.”

 

“No, how would I have any idea?” Sam said hotly. “I bally well found my friend hanging from her wardrobe after what happened to _her_ , so what would _I_ know about anything? And why is it alright for _you_ to be involved in a police operation to help _me_ but not alright for _me_ to want to help Cissy, and all those other girls who might have been hurt? I may have the body of a weak and feeble woman, but I have the heart of a police officer just as much as Paul does _and_ I have both legs!”

 

“If you’re suggesting that Milner isn’t fit for his duties -” Mr Foyle started crisply.

 

“No I’m _not_ , sir! That’s the point!” Sam cried. “He can perfectly well do his job regardless — and I could perfectly well do it _too_ , regardless! Saying I should stay home and - and - and _knit_ or something because I’m a girl is just as unfair as saying Mr Milner should! It’s as arbitrary as saying a detective needs two legs!”

 

“A detective needs training,” Mr Foyle said. “And _some_ understanding of things like obeying instructions, and working as part of a team, and not haring off on some daft solo frolic.”

 

“That’s all very well if you’re jolly well _allowed_ to be on the team,” Sam said. “If I’d asked to help, I wouldn’t have been let to. You just said so yourself.”

 

Mr Foyle ran his hand over his hair and muttered something Sam was _quite_ sure she must have misheard. “Sam, promise me you won’t do anything like this again.”

 

“No, sir,” she said stubbornly. “Not unless you promise me that if there _is_ something I can help with, you’ll let me.”

 

“I can’t do that, I’m not on the Force anymore!”

 

“Then you can’t make me promise _you_ either, sir.”

 

“Milner would be well within his rights to bang you up for interfering in a police operations,” Mr Foyle said, “and I’ve half a mind to suggest he do it.”

 

“That wouldn’t look very good in court when it comes time for me to be a witness against those two rotters, would it?” Sam pointed out.

 

Mr Foyle frowned. “Then I’ve half a mind to call your father and tell him you should go back to Lyminster for your own safety.”

 

“If you do that, you’ll be jolly well sorry if Jerry drops a bomb on Lyminster, sir,” Sam said robustly. “It’s all very well to talk about my _safety_ but people get blown up in their own homes these days, including _me._ If I’m going to be scraped off the walls one day, I’d much rather do something useful in the meantime.”

 

Mr Foyle pinched the bridge of his nose with his fingers, grimacing as if he had a headache. “You _are_ being useful,” he said. “What about your job?”

 

“Anyone the ability to read maps and a fairly high tolerance for boredom could do it,” Sam said.

 

“Well, what about my book?” Mr Foyle said. “I’ll never get it finished without your help.”

 

Sam shook her head. “It’s very kind of you to pretend but you’d be much better off typing your book yourself. I’m a much worse typist than I am driver.”

 

“Can’t exactly hire you as a driver, Sam.” He sat down, turning his hat in his hand. “Not having a car and not having much chance of getting one while the war’s on.”

 

“And when it’s over,” Sam said, “Andrew will be back and _he_ can drive you.”

 

He raised his eyebrows. “If you think I’m mad enough to get in a car driven by _that_ maniac … Anyway, aren’t you going off to London to join the Met when it’s over?”

 

“I wrote and asked,” Sam said, past the lump in her throat at the memory. “They’ve had so many women rejoin after they lifted the marriage bar they’re only taking on men.”

 

“I see,” Mr Foyle said, quite gently. “We-ell, after the war …”

 

Sam blinked hard. “When all the men come home? Yes, I’m sure it’ll be _much_ more likely then.”

 

“Hmm,” Mr Foyle said, and chewed the inside of his cheek. He frowned at the inside of his hat for a moment. “Look, Sam, you knew it wouldn’t be easy.”

 

“Yes, sir,” she said.

 

He gave her a shrewd glance. “Still not a reason to take daft risks.”

 

“It didn’t seem daft at the time,” Sam said.

 

“Risks generally _don_ _’t_ ,” Mr Foyle said dryly.

 

“Then how is one supposed to _know_?” Sam asked.

 

Mr Foyle put on his hat. “Ask someone who has a little more experience,” he said. “And _if_ you ever take it in to your head again to do … something _rash_ , I do very much suggest you _do_ ask someone who has a little more experience.” He paused. “And I promise you’ll get a fair hearing, if you’ll promise to listen to advice.”

 

Sam felt the lump in her throat dissolve. “Yes, sir,” she said, smiling. “I do promise.”

 

“Good,” Mr Foyle said, and turned to the door. “Your clothes are on the chair at the end of the bed, Marksbury’s waiting to drive us to the station so you can give your statement, shake a leg and we might have time for breakfast first.”

 

He shut the door behind him and Sam scrambled out of bed. The idea of facing Milner and explaining what she’d done seemed _much_ less scary if Mr Foyle was coming too. _And_ if it was going to happen after breakfast.

 

 _Maybe Henny Penny_ _’s laid an egg,_ Sam thought, hurrying into her clothes. _Maybe she_ _’s laid_ ** _two_** _!_

Two seemed unlikely, however.

 

Sam put on her shoes and adjusted her expectations to something a little more reasonable and attainable.

 

_One egg is better than none, after all._

* * *

 

 

<fin>

 

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> I don’t know if the UK Police Force used women officers in operations against sexual predators this early; however, the first women police officers to receive George Medals for courage were Sergeant Ethel Bush and Kathleen Parrott, who had been separately attacked by a sex offender they were on a stakeout in pursuit of in 1955.
> 
> Chloral hydrate, a sedative discovered in the 19th century, was the active ingredient in ‘knockout drops’ (or another term you may have heard, a “Mickey Finn” hence ‘slip someone a mickey’, named for a turn-of-the-century Chicago bartender who used knockout drops on his patrons to rob them once incapacitated) due to its solubility in alcohol or water and its relatively rapid action. Popular fiction promulgated the idea that the appropriate remedy was to make the victim ‘walk it off’, although unless an overdose has occurred, sleeping it off is harmless. I’ve played a little fast-and-loose with its effects for dramatic purposes.
> 
>  
> 
> The first two-way radios were used by police in Australia as early as 1923 - the units took up the entire back seat of the car. Although car-to-base systems and “walkie-talkies” were in use by World War II, I have written this story as if the Hastings Constabulary had not yet received this new technology. 
> 
> The Richter scale was defined in 1935 
> 
> The ‘hiring freeze’ on female police officers is my own invention, meant to explain why Sam didn’t pursue it between “Casualties of War” and “Plan of Attack”, and indeed why she ended up doing a variety of other jobs after the war.


End file.
